We walk in silence for a moment longer. Then I notice a large archway leading toward the training yard. Without waiting for permission, I veer in that direction. Remanos follows, so the guards who linger at the courtyard perimeter let us pass. The yard is sectioned off by a waist-high stone wall, the ground coated in pale sand. Wooden targets are lined up at one end, battered by repeated strikes from blunt swords and spears. On a rack near the entrance, I see an array of real weapons carefully secured with locks—probably the champion’s personal arsenal.
I exhale slowly, inhaling the tang of worn leather and the faint iron smell that pervades any place weapons are regularly used. “How often do you train here?”
Remanos shrugs. “Usually every morning, then again at dusk if I’m preparing for a major event.” He gestures with one thick arm at the battered practice dummies. “Right now, I’m meant to rest, but I can’t stay idle.”
A wry smile pulls at my lips. “Big men with big pride?”
He huffs an unamused breath, but a faint spark lights his eyes. “Something like that. Fighting is in my blood, for better or worse.”
My gaze skims over the yard, lingering on a practice sword with nicks along its edge, a battered shield with Remanos’s bull-head crest. Then I spot a large wooden trunk propped against the wall. The lid is slightly ajar. Curiosity tugs at me, and I walk toward it, ignoring the faint warnings my mind conjures. If he wanted me to stay away, he should keep it locked.
Inside the trunk, I see an assortment of trophies: a cracked orc war club, a chipped minotaur glaive, even what appears to be a worn banner with dark stains at the edge. They’re souvenirs from battles or duels he’s won, presumably. My stomach twists at the sight—proof of his lethal skill, but also a testament to a society that prizes conflict over peace.
“You keep your memories in a box?” I murmur, running my fingertips over the battered war club. “Like a war shrine?”
He steps behind me, voice quiet. “They remind me of the cost of victory. It’s not meant to be a shrine, more a caution.”
I glance over my shoulder, noticing how his tall frame looms. “A caution against what?”
“Against letting the Senate use me as a weapon without question,” he replies. “It’s easy to lose yourself when every fight is for some grand cause. This helps me remember the consequences.”
A flicker of empathy surfaces. I recall how he told me he never wanted to claim me, that the Senate forced his hand. It’s one thing to say it, but here he’s showing me the tangible weight of a champion’s life: old weapons that once belonged to enemies, keepsakes that speak of blood spilled on the colosseum sand. “I guess they’re not the decorations I expected in a champion’s training yard,” I remark softly.
He gives a low snort. “Would you prefer gold statues and lavish banners? That’s not who I am.”
“Clearly.” My gaze drifts over the war club again, then slides across the trunk. “At least you’re honest about it.”
He nods, tail flicking once. We stand in silence, the late-morning sun warming our shoulders, a light breeze ruffling stray tendrils of my hair. There’s a subtle shift in the air, a tension that coils between us, neither purely antagonistic nor entirely comfortable. It feels like a fragile thread bridging resentment and something else—maybe understanding.
I close the trunk lid and straighten, turning to face him fully. He’s close, the breadth of his shoulders a silent reminder of his power. Yet there’s a weariness in his stance that tugs at my chest. He’s still healing, and I see the faint tremor in his arm when he adjusts the cloth at his bandaged side.
“Why not listen to your medic and rest?” I ask, swallowing the unexpected concern in my voice.
His expression flickers. “I?—”
Before he can finish, a minotaur guard hurries into the yard, carrying a small scroll. “Champion, a messenger brought this. It bears the Senate seal.”
Remanos grunts, taking the scroll with a slow nod. He tears the wax seal and scans the content, brow furrowing. “They want to see me tonight. Some new decree about the feast.” He crumples the parchment with a controlled squeeze.
I stiffen. “Feast?”
He casts me a sidelong glance. “They’re throwing a celebration to honor my victory, naturally. They’ll likely demand your presence to show the city that the orc trophy is under control.”
The words make my stomach churn. “Wonderful. Another chance to treat me like a prop.”
His tail flicks in irritation, but he doesn’t dispute my statement. Instead, his tone softens. “I’m sorry.”
It grinds at me, because I suspect he means it. “Look,” I say, voice hardening, “I didn’t ask to be your problem. I’d rather getout of here and figure out my own life. But the Senate apparently has a talent for ignoring what either of us wants.”
His jaw clenches. “They’re determined to maintain the orcs’ notion of a rightful spoil, presumably to avoid insulting them. And if we resist too overtly?—”
“Another war,” I finish bitterly.
He nods. “Yes. Or a wave of sabotage from orc sympathizers. It’s not just about orcs either. Some minotaurs might see your release as weakness.”
A flare of anger tightens my chest. “So I have to wear a nice dress and smile at your side while they toast your conquest, or your people will call you weak?”
He steps closer, enough that I catch a whiff of that earthy scent clinging to his fur. “I don’t expect you to smile. Just… appear. Let them think we’re complying. Once we have leverage, maybe we can renegotiate your situation.”
